


Let's Not Talk of Love (Let's Talk of Paris)

by ryssabeth



Series: In Paris with You [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:25:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whispers of his heart are so continuous that they're a shout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Not Talk of Love (Let's Talk of Paris)

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of the poem "In Paris with You" by James Fenton. Credit to enjolrassss.tumblr.com for the headcanon that inspired this.

The whispers of his heart are so continuous they’re practically a shout. There was a time, however, that they didn’t speak at all and he looks back on those days as spectacular—and lonely. But the thrumming misery in his head (pushed onward by his heart) has drove him to a bar. He wonders if this is why Grantaire drinks—maybe there’s something loud in him too.

And then he doesn’t think about Grantaire because that’s the whole reason he’s here in the first place.

( _“We should see a movie,”_ he had said on Wednesday, winding one of his dark curls around a finger, looking past Enjolras out the window toward the art building, across the stretch of green and concrete that is the campus.

 _“What movie?”_ Eponine had asked, and in all honesty, Enjolras was too tired to really complain too much about the lack of focus.

 _“A Tale of Two Cities,”_ he replied immediately, and the aghast look on Enjolras’ face sent him into a fit of laughter—and Enjolras himself found that the place in him where he placed his exasperation was empty. Or, perhaps, not so empty. There was something else in it that coiled under his skin. _“They’re showing it at the cinema on campus.”_

Enjolras had searched for his irritation and came away, instead, thinking of Grantaire’s laughter.

And Friday found him here.)

It’s very probable that at this point in the evening, he could be a little drunk. Just this side of drunk maybe. And if there ever were a reason for getting into stupid situations, booze would be it.

“Look, our leader, in a den of iniquity!” Courfeyrac’s voice sounds over the voices of the others—but not so much the whispers within him. It’s a travesty, tragic and unfortunate. He hears a laugh and feels two pairs of hands on his shoulders.

“And whatever is he here _for_?” Marius is with him. Of course Marius is with him.

( _Please, don’t tell me about your girlfriend, please, I can’t take it anymore_. He feels his stomach knot in preparation for the endless stream of how gorgeous Cosette is. Christ.)

In order to nip that in the bud, Enjolras pulls his words together, the alcohol attempting to push his sense apart. “It’s none of your business. You’re so _nosy_.”

Courfeyrac speaks from his left, “seems to me it’s an emotional dilemma.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you,” Marius says. Enjolras looks at neither of them, tossing a burning shot down his throat. “What’s on your mind, Enjolras? Or, _who_ exactly. Never seen you drink to get drunk, you know.”

They sit, to either side of him, and he taps his glass against the table.

It was a mistake to tell them anything.

-

He could get it removed, he supposes. But removing the scripted words on his wrist certainly won’t undo the satisfied expressions on their faces, after they had wet themselves in fear. _Autonomy_ they’d said. _Pah_. Idiots.

( _“It’s not a bad thing to be in love._ ” Marius should haven taken creative writing with Jehan if he’s going to preach such platitudes.

 _“In fact there’s this poem—all right it’s better to show you, a moment_ ,” Courfeyrac had told him to wait and his drink addled mind has said _all right whatever, just hurry up_.

It had been a terrible idea to listen to either of them.)

He runs his thumbs over the words— _Ne parlons pas de l’amour. Parlons de Paris_ —and the words feel hollow, but full of promise. Of possibility. ( _Let’s not talk of love. Let’s talk of Paris_.) A sigh escapes him, and he drops his hands back to his sides. This wasn’t complicated, before. When Grantaire had been little more than a nuisance and the word _love_ only earned a scoff and not a nauseating spin within him.

A sharp knock on the bathroom door almost causes him to jump—but the keyword is almost, and Grantaire’s voice speaks through the door. “Marius and Courfeyrac say they are very sorry and offered to have me polish your shoes for you, if you wanted. They’re afraid you’ll kick them.” His tone his light and amused.

“But you’re not?” He opens the bathroom door to find Grantaire leaning against the wall, a beer bottle in hand.

“ _Please_ ,” he rolls his eyes, pushing away from the wall to bow. “It would be an honour to polish your shoes—and you wouldn’t ruin them by kicking me.”

(This would have been debatable, at another time.)

It is when he sees the small self-depreciating smile that Enjolras elects to keep the tattoo that decorates his wrist.

-

Monday brings with it excellent news for the _Revolutionary Society_. They have received a sales permit—all they need to do now is design shirts. Not only would this increase revenue (which had Combeferre writhing in excitement), but it would increase exposure of the group more positively—and might even wash out that incident last year that had them all running from the police.

(Grantaire had been laughing the entire time, covering his mouth to mute giggles when they were forced to hide.)

Speaking of said man, he lounges atop a desk in the back—sans bottle, sans _drink_ (and everyone is proud of him but no one will say so). He is unfocused—which is unsurprising—and his absent eyes track the movements of Enjolras’ right wrist. The entire tattoo debacle had had him in buckets of laughter for hours.

“Are you even paying attention?” Enjolras asks, because the tracking is causing his shoulders to curl. He’d rather not be crippled by emotion in the middle of his enthusiasm.

“Sure was. You were saying something inane and idealistic and I just couldn’t think of anything witty to say and opted not to say anything at all.” Clarity brightens in Grantaire’s eyes and he tilts his head, adjusting the beanie that rests upon it.

“That’s a first for you,” and he can’t help but smile. He wishes he could.

( _Let’s not talk of love. Let’s talk of Paris._ )

“Even drunk dogs can learn new tricks,” it sounds an inch too close to bitter, but Grantaire does nothing but smile his head still cocked in amusement.

When Enjolras swallows, it feels like ingesting gravel.

-

Thursday finds their meeting one person short—and that person is Grantaire. His studies have never been a priority (and had once made Enjolras’ lip curl in confusion, because otherwise why was he here?). Eight months before, it would have been a blessing. Now, it is more of a hinderance—and a needle in his heart. The whispers within him are displeased.

But he’s also rather missed, especially since they need a design for their T-shirts. Something not quite so forceful as the flag of the French Republic but also not something terrifyingly bland, such as the Eiffel Tower silhouetted within a slogan.

“We need Grantaire,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “On the day he decides not to grace us with his presence.”

(At least he can still _sound_ irritated. That is something of a plus.)

“We can go get him,” Jehan offers, his chin resting in his hand and a pen tucked behind his ear. “Bahorel, Feuilly, and myself. We’re terrible at planning anyway and you don’t need a poet. You need _prose_ ,” the final word is shrill and disgruntled. (But it’s true—a poet isn’t necessary for clothing design and if they’re going to have anything on it, it will be witty not _romantic_.)

“All right. Get what you can, please.”

Enjolras would like to go with them.

But, obviously, he does not.

His heart is displeased with that as well.

-

On Friday, he is awarded three _tentative sketches_ (Grantaire’s words, not his. _What you think I’m going to turn in my first draft?_ He sounded appalled—but that _is_ exactly what he had expected. Enjolras doesn’t tell him so). One is of a woman with scales—the first sketch, Enjolras imagines, because it’s a token. Obviously. _Justice_. No. (It is very well done, however.)

The second does, in fact, have the Eiffel Tower on it—only it has been overrun by people, climbing atop it, waving flags with the colours of the Republic. _Société de la abaissés_ is curled in writhing script, fireworks popping up in the sky.

(Enjolras thinks that one is his favourite.)

The third is of a French ship—an old one, back when ships were wooden and had sails. The club’s title is inscribed along the woodwork, and it’s very detailed—but it doesn’t have the same impact that the second one does.

(All three of the sketches have a decorated R. in the bottom left corner, emblazoned to look like a leaf, requiring a second inspection to find the letter within it.)

A compliment sits on his tongue—and a decision—when Jehan decides to cut him off with a casual sentence: “Have you seen Grantaire’s tattoo?”

Enjolras can _feel_ the surprise spread out across his face even before he says, “Tattoo?”

“Yep,” Jehan sings. “On his right ankle. Very dainty.” Mortification bleeds across Grantaire’s face—betrayal follows soon after, slowly to be overcome by redness in his cheeks. Chairs scrape against the terrible carpet, and voice after voice making excuses to leave. (Marius’ almost induces an eyeroll without Enjolras even thinking about such a thing.)

The door shuts behind Courfeyrac, the last to leave, and Grantaire is looking at anyone but him.

(Enjolras thinks his heart is going to stop—the possibilities are running through his mind. _What of?_ )

“A _tattoo_?” He says again, taking a few steps toward him, trying to keep the laughter out of his tone. He isn’t sure if it would come out hysterical or judgmental. It’s always best to be safe, he figures. “Let’s see.” (Curiosity is digging fingers under his skin, pulling at his nerves and his mind.)

“No!” Grantaire is off the table, hands held up in placation. “I mean—I was drunk. It’s stupid. Unintelligible even,” he says, trying to brush everything to the side with a healthy dose of derisive laughter.

That would have been a fine excuse on anyone else. He arches a brow to make this point incredibly clear before he says, “You can always get it removed, but not before I see this humiliating thing.” He gestures toward the right pantleg, even as Grantaire tries to shift it out of view. “Come on.”

His entire posture screams _no_ , but still he props his right foot against the edge of the table on which he had been sitting, rolling up the leg of his jeans into a small cuff and adjusting the position of the tongue of his trainer. The script is tiny and flowing, rolling letters around his ankle, hugging the skin and the bone. Enjolras walks carefully, reading the words slowly, and his heart begins beating in his throat.

 _Je suis à Paris avec la moindre chose que vous faites,_ it reads. ( _I’m in Paris with the slightest thing you do._ ) His heart races so quickly that he can’t tell if he has a pulse at all.

( _I know that poem, I know it, Courfeyrac said—_ )

“Is this a joke?” He asks, unsure if the quickening of his pulse is in anger or in shock. (He wants to run his fingers along the words etched into his skin.)

“I was drunk,” Grantaire says again, his voice the size of a pinhead, and he turns his head away, curls bouncing.

Enjolras leans against the table, resting his thigh against the edge, regulating his breathing with careful precision. “That doesn’t answer my question.” Drinking hardly has ever gotten Grantaire a tattoo before—and with his recent attempts at sobriety, that makes this confession a lie. Or a façade. Something other than the truth.

“I thought it would be funny,” Grantaire shrugs his shoulders, a liquid movement underlaid with tension. “And Jehan thought it was, so. Haha?” A smile touches his lips, but he doesn’t look toward Enjolras and he doubts it meets his eyes.

“I don’t believe you,” Enjolras says, before he realises it could be taken in the worst way.

“Sounds like a personal problem to me.” Grantaire’s hand clutches around the neck of an imaginary bottle. And then he is gone, the door cutting off any breath of _wait_ that Enjolras might have said.

And he is alone.

(He is alone—and, perhaps, on the outskirts of Paris.)

-

 **Courfeyrac:** have you heard from R?

 **Jehan:** I think I saw his windows boarded.

 **Marius:** Jehan says Grantaire skipped town.

(Enjolras doesn’t answer his text messages.

But he does pass by Grantaire’s flat to make sure there are signs of life, and there are. Yet he feels no better about all of this.)

-

Monday finds Enjolras wondering if keeping the tattoo is at all a good idea. It has caused him nothing but grief and confusion. (He’s stopped blaming Courfeyrac and Marius—though he wonders if he should at the very least hit them for satisfaction.)

Grantaire was not in any of his classes today— _I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have gotten this tattoo. I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t have done anything, I—_

He drops his shoulders, unwinding the muscles in his spine, and sits on the edge of one of the desks in the club’s customary meeting room. The art building sits across the grounds, stretching up toward the skyline on the horizon—but no shape with dark curls or stooped shoulders heads in the direction of the political science building.

The door behind him, however, rattles and opens, and he turns his head toward the sound.

And he finds the dark hair and the stooped shoulders standing in the room.

“Sorry—I thought there was going to be terror and suffering, I should just—“ Grantaire’s hand fumbles for the knob on the door, shaking it in embarrassment, though he doesn’t look away from Enjolras’ face.

He gets a grip on the doorknob and Enjolras can’t let him leave. He jumps onto a topic of conversations—poetry racing through his ears. “France—“ he begins, and watches Grantaire’s face relax, his hand falling away from the door. “France is all well and good, you know. And deserving of strength and freedom and her people are worthy of these things, as a whole.”

A grin touches Grantaire’s face and his eyes and his shoulders roll in comfort. “Going about getting that is your issue, I keep saying, because tyrants aren’t needed for oppression—“

“— _but_ ,” Enjolras keeps talking, because he knows if he stops he’ll _lose_ this—whatever it is, “but Paris is fine too.”

A guard comes up and his eyes flicker to the window. “And yep. There you go. You lost me.”

He cards a hand through his hair, wandering closer to Grantaire and hoping he doesn’t run off like he did before. “Paris is good—I think Paris is wonderful. As long as you—are in Paris. As long as we are in Paris together.”

“What has that got to do with France or anything or—“ Grantaire gestures around the room, pressing his back closer to the door.

Enjolras breathes and runs his thumb over the tattoo against his wrist. “Would you like to go out?” Perhaps this will be easier—rejection. Or at the very least something that Grantaire is willing to understand, if he tries hard enough.

However, he looks as if he’s been slapped—or kissed. It’s a combination of the two. “I’m—trying not to drink in public. At the moment. You know—“

( _Is he just trying not to understand me?_ )

“That isn’t what I meant.” He can feel the bite to his own words and tries to iron out the displeasure. His heart beats loudly enough to cut through the murmurs. “Would you like to go out. With me. Because I think I could like Paris very much if you would show me it properly.” He swallows down more gravel, the sensation cutting into his throat, and he can no longer look Grantaire in the face. “Am I embarrassing you?” He asks the door behind him. “I’m in Paris with you.”

There is nothing subtle about it. Either he will understand or he won’t.

A wheeze pushes past Grantaire’s lips. “Yes,” he says, his voice sounding like writing on sandpaper. “I would like to go out with you. I—“ the laughter that interrupts him is slightly hysterical, but full. “I’m in Paris with everything you do.”

Enjolras reaches carefully, taking Grantaire’s right hand with his left, his breath hitching when Grantaire’s fingers find the tattoo that he had inspired.

Grantaire shakes out his hair and—( _I am in Paris with the slightest thing you do._ )

-

They start kissing at some point or another—Enjolras doesn’t know when.

But he is in Paris with the way they fit together.


End file.
